His hand started shaking so hard that when he tried to pick his silver pen up off the desk, he fumbled it, and it clattered across the blotter onto the floor.

I took my leather coat off the back of the chair and walked out into the cool evening.

He didn’t call after me, and he didn’t try to sign the paper lying on the desk blotter.

By nine thirty Sunday morning, I was sitting in the vinyl armchair in Room 214 holding Margaret’s hand.

Her fingers felt like dry parchment against mine, but her pulse stayed slow and steady.

The heavy wooden door swung open without a knock, and Arthur walked in carrying a tall glass vase of twelve yellow roses.